


You Found Me

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen, Post-Series Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 01:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16337006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: "Brother Diarmuid found him washed ashore five summers ago..." I imagine this is about how it went.





	You Found Me

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick notes: there's just a liiiiiittle bit of kid Diarmuid-whomp, but nothing too serious. This was supposed to be a drabble, buuut of course, it got out of control.

You Found Me.

* * *

It was late summer, the sun was high already, gently warming what it touched. It was that irritating point in the year when the morning air was chilled, whereas by early afternoon, Diarmuid was sweating.

The young boy sat down on the beach, sipping water out of a skin and letting the waves lap at his bare feet. He glanced around before he loosed his collar, took it off, fanned himself a few times and set it down next to him.

Surely the rest of his brothers wouldn't miss him if he took a short swim?

He checked around him and, finding no one, started to slip his robe over his head. He stood now in trousers and a light undershirt, skinny arms still in his heavy sleeves, when something caught his attention.

Diarmuid maneuvered a hand up to shield his eyes against the sun and peered down the shore.

It looked like some sort of longboat. The craft bobbed on the water, dragging against the sand. It appeared empty, but it wasn't tied off. Like the boat had simply washed up. Squinting, it looked like there was a grubby cloth thrown over top.

He looked around again in case someone was on the way back for it, rocking back and forth, squishing his toes in the sand.

Then he flung the robe back over his head, tugged it down, and took off running to go check it out.

He could hear the sand sliding underneath the wood with a soft hiss while it rocked. As he got closer, there was another sound on the air that he couldn't quite place.

It dimly reminded him of three winters ago, when a sickness settled deep in his lungs. Until the Brothers' remedies had taken effect, Diarmuid had been convinced that each breath was a-

 _'A death rattle?'_  the thought stopped his feet cold.

Was it coming from the boat? It must be. There was nobody else around. Diarmuid was sure he'd notice if someone were walking along the flat, white sand.

The young monk shifted foot to foot, uneasy.

He knew he should at least  _check_  the boat. Even if it was a (Diarmuid gulped) a corpse. The Brothers had taught him to do unto others. The thought of the Brothers  _not_  helping him when  _he_  was ill spurred him forward several steps.

"H-hello?" He called hesitantly, standing on his toes.

There was no answer other than the sound of the waves lapping at the sides. Maybe it  _was_  just adrift.

"Hello, is anyone there?" He called again, bolder.

Diarmuid moved next to the longboat, hand poised over the cloth, and took a deep, steadying breath.

Only to release it in a shrill screech when the cloth whipped off the boat on its own. Diarmuid tumbled backwards, hyperventilating. With wide eyes, he watched a chapped, sunburnt hand clutch the side. A gasp.

The boy smothered another screech when an arm followed. The boy scrambled back further. The arm dragged a great, hulking body over the edge and it landed with a shallow splash on the shore. The man didn't move. Very slowly and with his pulse still thundering in his ears, Diarmuid stood.

When the man didn't stir, Diarmuid shuffled his feet for just a moment before pitching forward into the wet sand next to him.

"H-hey, sir?" he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

He shook the stranger gently by the shoulder and took a good look at him.

The grey, tattered shirt he wore was more rags than shirt, it seemed, with rips and tears running up and down the arms and chest. A dingy bandage poked out of the holes in the wrecked shirt. Heavily worn, brown-leather pants clad his legs and he was barefoot.

The man had a nose broken more than once in its life. It resembled Brother Cirían's along the bridge. Strong brows were hidden by shaggy, brown hair, almost reaching his eyes. His high cheeks, hidden behind the dark, patchy scruff, were hollow, sunburnt, and sickly looking, despite the man's obviously muscular body.

"Sir?" he said again, louder, "Hey, are you dead?"

The boy shook him again and grabbed his water skin from around his shoulder. He unstoppered it and let the liquid trickle onto the chapped slash of a mouth.

Finally, there was movement. Diarmuid poured more water into the now open mouth.

Swallowing, the man peeled his eyelids open slowly, revealing brown orbs, flecked with green. They slipped in and out of focus while he figured out what the hell was going on. He had an idea that he was still in his boat, as he still felt the sway of the ocean rocking him, but his stinging hands clenched into wet sand, which couldn't be right.

"Sir?" came a soft voice from his right, and he startled violently.

A tentative hand settled on his shoulder. He flinched away from it as he forced his eyes to work.

Wide and disbelieving, they settled on the young face. The boy's other hand held a waterskin. Why was such a young boy dressed as a monk?

The child held the skin out to him as soon as his eyes landed on it.

The man maneuvered himself upright, groaning when his shoulder stretched. He tried to will his still pounding heart to slow down.

He silently nodded his thanks before accepting it and taking a deep pull off it. His head went light with the relief it brought.

"I'm Diarmuid," he started, sitting back on his haunches. Once he started, it seemed he couldn't stop. "What's your name? Where are you from? I live in the monestrary, that way (he pointed). Are you hurt? You have a bandage on your arm. How long were you adrift? Did you lose your oars somehow? Were you in a storm or something?"

The little boy said all of this very quickly.

The man lowered the waterskin to his lap and looked at the young face, amused. He said nothing, but instead tapped his throat and shook his head. The boy looked puzzled before realization quickly dawned on him.

"Oh. Are you mute?"

The man hesitated for a fraction of a moment. It was true, in a way. Words always  _did_  seem to stick in his throat. Now so more than ever.

He nodded again. Diarmuid stood up and offered him a hand. The mute stared, obviously confused.

"You should get that tended to. Let's go back to the monestary. I'm sure the Brothers will be wondering what become of me."

The boy was startled to see the stranger's eyes suddenly harden and he firmly shook his head. He made to hand the waterskin back, but Diarmuid waved him off.

"Keep it," he said, "You need it more than I."

He lowered it back to his lap, nodding.

"Come," he tried again, smiling. "They will do you no harm, nor force you to stay, but God brought you to our shores for a reason."

The mute sat silently.

"Please."

The stranger look at the boy in his too-big robe. The softness in his eyes and trust in his voice almost undid him.

A bell rang in the distance and made Diarmuid jump, his face panicked. The moment was broken.

"I'm late for mass!" He groaned, raking a hand through his unruly curls.

He bounced on his heels, appearing uncomfortable.

"Are you sure you won't come with me?" He asked, frowning.

The mute nodded, this time with a gentle smile. He would not put these people in danger.

"Where will you go? Will you wait here? I can come back after mass with some supplies, if you like. At least take some medicine with you."

The boy was steadfast with his kindness and the mute felt a pang in his heart. He had a feeling Diarmuid would come back whether he said yes or no. Regardless, he wasn't going anywhere, (other than the trees nearby for shade, maybe) not in the shape he was in.

Diarmuid was surprised when the man finally relented and nodded his head. The boys face split into a wide grin that faltered when the distant bell rang out again.

"Okay, I'll be back later with food and medicine," he said, already moving. "Just rest."

He waited for the quiet man to nod before he tore off down the beach, robe flapping.

The mute stood unsteadily, gripping the side of the boat for leverage. Glancing around, he stretched his uninjured shoulder and headed to find shade under the nearby trees.

* * *

It was nearly sunset by the time Diarmuid returned.

The mute had startled awake, looking up at a reddening sky amid leaves instead of the blazing blues and greys of the ocean. He quickly realized where he was, sat up and looked around. Anxiety had been gnawing at him since he opened his eyes, and made him keep a close watch in which the direction the boy had shot off.

After a short while, he heard footsteps and Diarmuid blew by him, running with an odd little hop in his step. He stood and reached out too late to tag his arm.

Diarmuid skidded to a halt in the sand, nearly falling over. His head twisted back and forth. The mute decided he'd better start walking.

Slowly and deliberately loud, the mute rustled, cracked and snapped his way to the edge of his little grove. He knew Diarmuid heard him by the way he whipped his little head around.

"Oh! I thought--" his brows furrowed. "I thought I heard footsteps behind me."

The Mute's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He turned and strained his ears for sound.

Crickets, birds, the breeze rustling through the leaves, the gentle lapping of waves; all normal evening sounds. The occasional bark of--

There.

Footsteps.

Fast ones.

They pounded through the grass, skiffed over the sand and the next thing he knew, Diarmuid was gone from where he was standing. The mute couldn't quite process the sight of the boy dangling over this new person's shoulder.

"Let  _go_!" He heard him shout.

"Give me that bag, boy!" A hoarse voice shouted back.

"No!" Diarmuid kicked his legs wildly, throwing the scruffy looking man off balance.

A soft thump, a cry, and then the sound of flesh striking flesh.

When they rose together, the mystery man holding Diarmuid by the throat with one hand and clutching the bag strap with the other. Blood trickled from the boy's left eyebrow and he appeared dazed as he tried to claw weakly at the man's arm. He was rewarded when the man let go of the strap and gave Diarmuid a hard slap across the face.

His struggling stopped.

The mute only saw red. Silently, he stalked quickly toward the one sided struggle. The poor excuse of a human was too busy to notice him.

Without thinking, he broke into a sprint and dove for him, clotheslining the man that clutched Diarmuid. They all tumbled to the ground bodily. Pain lanced through his shoulder, and he grunted.

Somehow, the mute wound up with the child in his arms and he stood. He looked him over quickly and carefully for more serious injuries and finding none, touched their foreheads together before he knew what he was doing.

A shock thrummed through his heart. It was a gesture that was an aching reminder of his former life, his  _real life_ , before the Crusades.

Shakily, he set the boy down. He waved in the direction of the trees and pushed the child that way. Then he turned when he heard rustling behind them.

With a yell, the wild man lunged at the pair. The mute caught him by the waist, swung him around and tossed him back to the ground. Something in his shoulder popped, and hiss arm throbbed anew. Breathing hard, he stood again, shoved his hair out of his eyes and saw the boy still frozen in fear.

When Diarmuid still didn't move, the mute pushed the boy again to get him started and pointed firmly toward the little grove, then up, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

That seemed to snap him out of it with a gasp and finally, he heard the sound of little feet rushing away through dead leaves. The mute breathed a silent sigh of relief before turning his full attention on the man struggling back up.

The raggety looking man looked feral in his crouched stance and torn clothes. The mute raise his guard half heartedly and took a step back into his own crouched stance.

The stranger finally focused on the mute, taking in his size for the first time. He scowled murderously, knowing he was already beat. The man dropped his guard and fled like Satan himself was at his heels.

The mute let out a whoosh of air from the breath he hadn't known he was holding. He could have easily beaten the man, injured or not, but he was glad of avoiding a real fight. He had looked malnourished, and the mute sensed fighting him would have been like fighting a wild animal.

Something warm dripped down his skin. He looked down, unsurprised to find his arm awash in fresh blood. He tried to flex his fingers into a fist. They twitched. The mute sat down in the sand heavily.

He stayed there for a while, breathing hard. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs. Once he was aware of it, it seemed he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. It was like an iron band tightening around his chest.

 _'No. Not now,'_  he thought desperately.

The mute closed his eyes tightly and focused on one breath at a time. Hand clenched into fist until his nails bit into his palm. Good. That was good. The feeling kept him grounded as the fresh adrenaline surged throughout his body. He stuggled, but managed to pull in a deep breath.

And another.

And another.

Now he focused on the sound of the ocean. The steady waves shhhing against shore.

His lungs seemed to be remembering their primary function. The iron didn't seem so tight.

Another deep breath through the nose.

"Sir? Are you all right?" a very,  _very_  small voice penetrated the Mute's thoughts. "I s-see blood. Did he hurt you?"

The Mute's eyes shot open and they landed instantly on Diarmuid. His face was deathly pale and frightened as he knelt in front of him.

"S-sir?" He tried again, chin and voice trembling.

The mute nodded once at the boy, but held up a shaking hand to stop him coming any closer. His chest still heaved.

"W-was that your first fight?" Diarmuid asked, inching closer anyway.

The question caught him off guard, and was absurd to him. He let out a short bark of a laugh. The harsh sound made the boy flinch and quick wave of guilt washed over the mute.

The big man held out his uninjured arm and Diarmuid scrambled under it. He could feel the small frame shaking head to toe as the child plastered himself to his side. The mute thought he heard sniffling and gave him a squeeze.

The sniffling turned into crying. It was startling.

"Shh, shh," the mute soothed, rocking gently.

They sat like that until Diarmuid's tears subsided, the mute occasionally stroking the boy's curly hair.

Then his stomach let out the loudest growl he'd ever heard.

It shocked the boy into smiling again at least. With a last sniffle, Diarmuid wiped his eyes with his sleeve, smearing blood. The mute patted him on the back. He stood up and offered his hand to the mute.

"Please come back with me?"

There was something final about the question. Like he wasn't taking no for an answer. Diarmuid had a determined look under his watery smile. And the mute knew better than to argue.

The mute reached out his own hand and it dwarfed the boy's as he took it. His pale little cheeks flushed with relief when the man nodded.

The mute was supposed to be here.

He stood unsteadily and they started walking towards the monestary.

After all, God had brought him to these shores for a reason.

* * *

NOTES: i love this movie. 


End file.
